


happy birthday, doctor watson

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC
Genre: Fluff, M/M, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:14:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's John's birthday, and Sherlock's shit at baking, gift-picking and arts</p>
            </blockquote>





	happy birthday, doctor watson

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by contemplation-threat-angel on tumblr

John is turning forty today.

Fourty, and strung tight as a wire coil at reaching the big four-oh; at getting, as he puts it, “old”.

Frankly, Sherlock doesn’t see the issue. It’s just a birthday; it’s just getting older. It’s a perfectly natural process, ageing, and Sherlock just doesn’t understand the fuss.

But it’s John, and John is clearly _bothered_ , and that doesn’t quite sit well with him. So he devises a plan.

Something that would make John’s birthday enjoyable; take his mind off the fact of turning forty.

He tries baking, but he’s complete shite at it, and only succeeds in filling the kitchen with smoke; the oven with burnt bits of cake mix and icing.

He tries finding a gift next, but, as with the cake and girlfriends, this is clearly not his area. He abandons the idea and storms out of several stores, much to the shock of several salesmen.

He attempts a banner, but his art skills are dreadfully sub-par, he hasn’t the patience, and the felt pens leave disgustingly persistent rainbow marks on his hands and fingers.

Frustrated, he throws himself into John’s armchair, gripping the Union Jack pillow against his chest, and sulks.

Stupid birthdays, stupid turning forty, and stupid John, expecting such trite things like birthday parties, cake, and presents.

Although—John hadn’t actually _asked_ for anything. Just shifted out of Sherlock’s arms in their bed, peered into the mirror and sighed, rubbing at the shadows under his eyes with his fingertips. He’d made some remark about wrinkles, a comment completely lost to Sherlock in his post-coital haze and languorous stretch on the bed, and had dressed for work.

Sherlock hugs the pillow, fingers working against the fabric as his eyes darted over the room; settled on the violin case in the corner.

Inspiration.

——————————-

When John returned from work, two hours late with sore shoulders and aching back, the flat was dark and silent. Tromping up the stairs, he was rewarded with a bruised shin from the coffee table, and he answered with a curse under his breath, rubbing at the spot.

“Bloody hell, why is it—Sherlock, where are you?”

He groped along the wall for the lightswitch. Was the power out? His fingers found his target and he flipped it up; light flooded the flat, answering both questions, silent and asked.

“John.”

The doctor started; stared and turned his head very slightly to the side. Seated in his chair was Sherlock. Holding his violin under his chin, bow clutched in one hand.

A very naked Sherlock, holding a violin. The union jack pillow rested in his lap.

“Happy Birthday,” the detective offered, looking momentarily uncertain, and John burst into laughter.

“Is this my gift, then?” He asked, moving closer and loosening his tie. Sherlock nodded slowly, drawing the bow along the strings of the violin, a slow, ringing note settling into the air.

“I attempted a cake,” Sherlock began, painting the silence with another soft stroke of the bow. “And I looked for a gift. Even tried a banner.” He shook his head and paused, considering. “Don’t look in the oven, by the way.”

John sniffed; caught the faint scent of burning and smoke, then pushed it away, eyes moving slowly over the long lines of the man in front of him.

“So you settled for this, instead? Yourself?”

Sherlock smiled; teased another plaintive note from the violin. “That, and a song, of course. Written specifically for one Doctor Watson.”

John grinned; removed his tie and tossed it away. “Bloody hell, I ought to turn forty everyday.”


End file.
